A Guy Like That
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Sunny all day, with storms likely in the evening.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

My thanks again to Owl and Cheri: beta-readers extraordinaire, especially this week.

**Author's Note:** At the beginning of the epilogue to "Ties My Father Sold Me", Mark's attitude to his less-than-perfect absentee father has taken a 180-degree turn from his earlier disgust. As he and Hardcastle arrive at the Apollo Lounge, ostensibly to catch Sonny's act, Mark dotes on the man's name, up in lights, and proudly wears a tacky Atlantic City tourist tie—a gift from his dad. Hardcastle stands by patiently and barely raises an objection to this near-deification. The bite comes after they step inside, to find the disgruntled waitresses sitting around and no guests in sight. Sonny has blown out of town again, leaving Mark with only a sketchy letter and a stunned look on his face.

But what happened between the arrest of Tommy Sales that morning, and the evening's disappointment? And what gives with that tie?

This follows on after the story "Flagrante".

**A Guy Like That**

by L.M. Lewis

With Sales and his crew safely under arrest and duly Mirandized, Hardcastle could finally heave a sigh of relief. It had been touch and go there for a while, keeping the mobster convinced that Sonny was still the man to retrieve the evidence tapes that had been locked up in a federal judge's safe, despite the fact that he'd spent the afternoon at the police station, presumably ratting Sales out to the cops.

Selling the idea had, by necessity, fallen to Mark. He'd been the hostage Sales' men had kidnapped, in an ill-conceived notion to pressure Sonny into cooperating. How was Sales to know that Mark meant so little to his father, that Sonny's first impulse when confronted with the threat was to pack his bags and skedaddle?

Hardcastle sighed again, looking back over his shoulder to where Mark sat on the the hood of the car, legs dangling, hands clasped loosely between his knees. His father stood next to the car, not an arm's length away. Both men looked as if they had had a long day—make that twenty-four hours: the last time any of them had been horizontal in a bed. But despite the obvious fatigue, the younger man's expression was one of contentment.

It might have been relief—after all, it'd been a near-run thing, bullets flying at the end, and mostly in McCormick's direction—but then there were the sideward glances from time to time, directed at his father, and the smile that seemed to include elements of both pride and satisfaction. The judge watched as he said something to Sonny and then gazed up at the unusually blue New Jersey sky.

Hardcastle waited until he had his grimace under control, then slogged over to the car, rasping, "You two done gawking yet?"

They were, it seemed, and Hardcastle figured they just might make a clean get-away if they moved quick enough. They almost managed it, too, when Detective Delario strode up, cornering Sonny where he sat in the front passenger seat and reminding him that he'd be wanted again at the station tomorrow.

The judge watched the man quiver, even with Sales under arrest. Sonny knew as well as anybody that it wasn't over till it was over, and while Sales himself might be out of commission, arrested was not convicted and the man had an organization still at his disposal.

He reached up from the back seat and put his hand down on Sonny's shoulder, partly to buck him up, partly to remind him that Sales wasn't the only guy who could make his life uncomfortable. He offered general assurances to Delario.

Through all of this McCormick seemed oblivious. Chalk it up to combat fatigue, the judge figured. Sixteen hours in Sales' hands—the whole time knowing he was slated to die—that would take it out of a guy. Still, that explanation didn't quite jibe with the younger man's smiling countenance and beatific nod.

And what Mark seemed concerned about was Sonny: not some realistic fear, like maybe the guy would try to duck on his duty as a witness, but the absurd idea that the man's lounge act was a 'don't miss it' feature on the boardwalk, and his absence for any period would be a vast disappointment to his legions of fans. He was even making plans for the two of them to attend the show tonight. Hardcastle was so flummoxed that he almost missed his cue to be polite—_again_—to Mark's father.

He gave the required nod of agreement, all the time thinking that McCormick had gone without sleep too many nights in a row.

Hardcastle tried to count them. He wound up using his fingers, and he didn't even include the week before Mark's birthday when he'd seen the light on into the wee hours through the loft window of the gatehouse.

Still, fatigued or not, by habit and personal inclination McCormick had taken the driver's seat in the sedan, and he seemed to handle that chore with no difficulty. The first stop would have to be Sonny's place.

"You can just drop me off at the corner," Daye advised him, showing an unusual disinclination to impose.

_Closer to the Greyhound station_, Hardcastle suspected, and he was currently placing the odds at about one in five that Daye would be available to keep his appointment with Delario in the morning. Under other circumstances he would have invoked measures to improve those odds, but after the past twenty-four hours he'd had just about all he could take of the man—and there was plenty of evidence against Sales now, even without Sonny's half-hearted contribution.

He must have been tired himself, because he'd missed the start of a near-argument in the front-seat.

"I said we'll take you _home_, Sonny." Mark was sounding stubbornly insistent. "It's the least I can do," he added, in an obvious attempt to appear more conciliatory.

Sonny opened his mouth and then abruptly shut it again on whatever he'd intended to say. After that things got quiet in the car, so quiet that it was Hardcastle who offered the directions to Sonny's apartment. Mark nodded once and made the first turn as instructed. He was still smiling, though Daye seemed increasingly tense.

As they finally approached his place, he looked ready to hop out of the vehicle and wave them on, but Mark was having none of it and even after the events of the past twenty-four hours he was still the faster of the two. He didn't quite open Sonny's door for him, but he was out and on the sidewalk, looking like a man who expected to be invited in.

It was clear to the judge that Sonny's mind was elsewhere. _What to pack; what to leave._ Daye seemed momentarily baffled by the company walking him to his front door. Hardcastle sighed and let himself out of the back seat, trailing along behind. Somebody had to get a grip on Mark's elbow and pull him off.

But by the time he got to the stoop, Sonny had apparently come up with his own maneuver. "Wait here a sec," he said chattily as he fumbled the lock—no resemblance to the smooth second-story man of the preceding night. "I almost forgot—all the excitement. There's something I meant to give you."

He stepped inside, leaving Mark unexpectedly facing a closed door with a look of puzzlement on his face.

The judge leaned in and said, "Probably doesn't want you to see the mess—empty pizza boxes and all that—he's been kinda busy lately."

"Oh," Mark said, and seemed to give that an instant's thought and repeated it with more understanding. "_Oh_—yeah," a quick palm to his forehead, "jeez, I'm kinda out of it. He must've been frantic—" He cocked his head slightly and took in the judge with an admonishing expression. "You didn't give him _too_ hard a time, did you?"

Hardcastle gritted his teeth, then consciously—_forcibly_—relaxed his jaw. He couldn't help the frown, though.

"Just what exactly was I supposed to have given him a hard time about?"

Mark stared at him for a moment. The fatigue was starting to show around the edges of his unnatural buoyancy. "You know . . ." he dropped his voice and leaned slightly, "About the break-in. The _tapes_."

Hardcastle stared back. He thought it had been pretty obvious, with ten screaming cop cars showing up at this morning's confab, that he'd had police cooperation on this one. On the other hand, they'd fooled Tommy Sales and that's who Mark had spent the night with.

The judge cleared his throat carefully and said, "Just what did you hear?"

Mark darted his eyes at the mostly empty early-morning street and said, in a confiding, low tone, "Sales had you and Sonny watched—you knew that, didn't you?"

The judge cast his gaze heavenward—a quick, silent plea for patience. "'Course I did," he said exasperatedly.

"And the goon reported back the whole thing: Sonny and you getting into the court building, the cops showing up. That must've been tense," Mark added an aside and shook his head. "But you got out again okay—nobody the wiser." He finally grinned, though he kept his chin down and looked marginally contrite. "Sorry to cause all the fuss."

"'S okay." Hardcastle waved that away. "Can't help it if Sales mistook you for somebody important," he added with a half-smile.

There was no snappy comeback, just a slightly bigger grin from the younger man and a simple, "Yeah."

And then the apartment door opened again, with Sonny appearing in the doorway but planted in a way that didn't invite entry.

"Here it is," he said, sounding slightly out of breath. "Musta misplaced it." He held out a small, flat package, wrapped in matte gold paper that looked like it might have had a previous set of creases in it. There was a ribbon, gold as well and flattened slightly, stuck on with scotch tape. "I meant to give it to ya after dinner the other night, sort of a belated birthday present."

"Not twenty-five years late, I hope," Hardcastle muttered.

Neither of the other men seemed to hear him. Mark hesitated for a moment and then reached for the box, his eyes fixed on it for another second, and then he slid it, clumsily, into his pocket as though he were embarrassed to be seen taking it.

"You didn't have to. I mean I didn't expect—"

"It's okay, kid," Sonny interrupted. He seemed equally embarrassed, a condition that seemed foreign to him. He stood there for a half-second longer and then started to ease back.

Mark glanced up. "Guess you're pretty tired."

"Yeah."

"We oughta let you go—get some sleep, will ya?"

"Sure thing, kid. You too."

"See you later, okay?"

The door had already been starting to close. It wasn't clear if Sonny had caught that last part. In any case, there was no reply but for the snick of the latch.

Mark let out a long, weary sigh, as if everything had suddenly caught up to him and he'd just as suddenly realized it.

"Come on," the judge said gruffly, snagging an elbow and turning him back toward the car, "you oughta follow your own advice. You need me to drive?"

"Huh?" Mark blinked. They were back to the curb. "Nah. I'm okay." The little smile was back, though it was tempered with one last anxious glance over his shoulder toward the stoop and the closed door.

00000

He hadn't needed any further guidance to get back to the Chancellor—apparently still at least that familiar with the haunts of his youth. Hardcastle watched him tuck the borrowed sedan into a parking space. He was surprised Delario hadn't considered it evidence and sent it back to the impound from which it had emerged. He was glad the loan had been extended.

He climbed out and came around to Mark's side. The younger man was standing there, thumbs hooked in his pant pockets, studying the damages. "Rental?" he asked. "I hope you got the extended insurance."

"Uh-uh. Borrowed it from the ACPD. They must've heard about your track record. They gave me a beater."

That coaxed a smile from the younger man, or maybe it had been there all along, just briefly doused by the thought of all that paperwork.

"Upstairs," Hardcastle took him by the elbow again. "They give you anything to eat last night?" They passed the doorman—a new guy the judge hadn't seen before—and stepped into the coolness of the lobby.

Mark seemed to have been contemplating the question for an inordinate length of time, but he finally admitted, as the elevator doors opened, "Guess I didn't have much of an appetite." He glanced back at the hotel's eatery, which faced onto the lobby. The doors closed on that view.

Hardcastle shook his head. "Nope. I'll let ya order from room service. We're not sitting there behind plate glass in plain view of the street."

"Why not? Sales is in the lock-up."

"'Half the drug action on the East Coast'"—Hardcastle quoted solemnly. "Bound to be a couple of lieutenants still out there—one of 'em might still want to score big with the boss."

Mark froze for a moment, then turned sharply toward him, looking anxious. "And we let my dad just turn in at home? _Ju-udge_—Sales' guys know where he lives. He'll be a sitting duck." He reached for the panel, his finger aiming for the 'L' button.

Hardcastle grabbed his wrist. "Will ya relax?"

He had a strong suspicion that Sonny would only be at home long enough to throw his essentials in a couple of suitcases, book a ticket out of town, and call a cab. But he doubted that Mark would buy that, and he had no actual proof, so he tried for something more consonant with Sonny's new status as hero.

"He wasn't born yesterday. Anyway, you saw how he gave us the bum's rush, didn't ya? He's probably headed over to Kitty's place right now. Just didn't want to embarrass anybody. He'll be okay."

The elevator opened onto their floor. Mark looked doubtful but finally stepped out. The doubt eventually cleared, replaced by a slightly jauntier smile.

"Yeah, bet you're right," he nodded. Then his tone went more confidential. "It's the rush you know."

The judge grimaced but he had already turned away and was fiddling their room key into the lock as Mark mused on.

"Adrenalin. Better than a race. Well, _almost_ better."

"It is, huh?" Hardcastle said dryly. "You sure you wanna be telling me all this?" He stepped aside and ushered the younger man into the room.

"Well," Mark shrugged and strolled past, "I've never broken into a _judge's_ chambers and cracked his safe. Maybe that's not as exciting." He smiled slyly and plopped down on the end of the far bed.

"Okay," Hardcastle said, hands on hips, "I think the less said about that the better. Next time we leave you with the goons." He shook his head, took his jacket off, and draped it on a chair. "Now order breakfast, will ya?"

"Just get me two of everything," Mark replied, not looking very intimidated by the threat. He stood again, stiffly, opened the drawer where he'd stowed his things, pulled out what he needed, and headed for the bathroom. A few moments later, the judge heard the shower running.

Hardcastle shook his head and dropped onto his own bed. He leaned over, scrabbling for the receiver. His own fatigue, and the stress of the last sixteen hours, seemed to have suddenly caught up with him as well, though he still didn't have much appetite. One of everything would probably do in his case.

00000

The food arrived, and McCormick emerged from the bathroom—clouds of steam billowing in his wake—at nearly the same moment. He'd donned a t-shirt and shorts, and was toweling his hair dry. Without the cover that his long-sleeved shirt had provided, the bruises were now apparent.

Hardcastle silently kicked himself for not asking about damages at the scene. McCormick was a notoriously reluctant patient, though presumably if he still had an appetite after all this while, there weren't any internal injuries. Still—it would have been more fodder for the charges and one of these days Tonto was going to brush off a ruptured spleen.

The tray had been deposited on the small table and its contents off-loaded by the server. The judge tipped him and waited until he'd departed before he pointed at one of the darker bruises, one eyebrow raised.

Mark looked down as though he'd just noticed them himself, which might be true. Adrenalin was like that.

"These?" he said, with a casualness that was disconcerting. "Retaliation for something stupid I did with a car door." He pulled his t-shirt sleeve up, looked down through it, past his shoulder toward his ribs and grunted once. Then he let it fall back into place and turned toward his breakfast. "I _am_ glad you were willing to go with the flow on this one, though, Judge."

It was a remarkably sincere thank you, and Hardcastle regretted his earlier cavalier remark.

"I mean, I know it must've been harder for you than for him—a B&E and all." Mark shoveled in a forkful of eggs and chewed thoughtfully.

"See," the judge rumbled, "that's the difference between guys like me, and guys like Sonny. A guy like him takes whatever way is easiest. A guy like me looks for a solution _within_ the law."

"Yeah," Mark had already swallowed the first bite, and was getting into a steadier rhythm, "but sometimes, when the chips are down and there isn't any legal way, and somebody's life might be at stake, well . . ." he shook his head slowly and grabbed a piece of bacon.

Hardcastle thought about explaining the principle of flagrant necessity. Great legal theory, true, but he had a notion that in McCormick's hands it would be a twelve gauge side-by-side loaded with double-ought—this was a guy who could cut a powerful swath of damage with a concept like that.

He kept his lips tightly sealed, except to admit another mouthful of food.

"Anyway," Mark came up for air again, now turning his attention to the toast, "thanks. I thought Sales was gonna lose it a couple of times. If you had waited around to get something _legal_ done—" He let that end abruptly, though they both knew where it was going.

"'With your shield, not on it'—that's what counts in the end," the judge said, nodding once decisively. "And you better finish that up and hit the sack," he glanced down at his watch. "Almost nine and we've got an appointment with Delario's people at two-thirty."

Mark looked up, alarmed.

"You didn't think you were getting off without a full statement, didja?"

"_Judge_," the alarm was crystallizing, "what the hell do you want me to say about the break-in?"

Hardcastle sighed and gave him a stern look. "A statement is what happened, to the best of your recollection—"

"You mean you want me to 'forget' I heard about it?" Mark had started to nod sagely.

"_No_, for cryin' out loud—just tell 'em the whole truth. What happened. _Everything_ . . . the evidence guys can take some pictures of those bruises, too."

"But—"

"And you know what they call it when a witness reports something that he says another person says happened?"

Mark sat there for a moment and then offered, tentatively, "'Hearsay'?

"Got it in one." Hardcastle sat back in his chair with a look of satisfaction on his face. "I'm glad you're paying attention _some_ of the time. You almost done with that food?"

Mark glanced down at his nearly empty plate and then nodded.

"Bed. _Now_." The judge pointed toward the far one.

The younger man looked over his shoulder. His ebullience from earlier was nearly dissipated, and his worry of a few minutes past seemed to have been addressed to his satisfaction. He rose and turned—stiffer still than before despite the hot shower—and did as he'd been told.

Hardcastle loaded the empty plates back onto the tray and carried the pile out to the hallway to avoid being disturbed later. He passed the bathroom and noticed Mark's shirt, tumbled on the floor. He reached in to shake it out and hang it on the hook, only to see the box still jammed in the pocket, unopened. He dropped the whole mess on the floor.

00000

At one-forty-five the phone rang—the wake-up call Hardcastle had asked for. He blinked blearily as he picked up the receiver and acknowledged the message. The man in the other bed hadn't so much as stirred at the sound.

Mere jostling wasn't going to cut it, either. It took a few solid shakes followed by a thwack or two and a couple loud invocations of his name before McCormick finally tried to swat him away. This was progress.

"Come on, kiddo. The wheels of justice wait for no man. Justice delayed is justice denied."

Mark rolled over and squinted as he grumbled, "_Sleep_ denied is cruel and unusual punishment. Why can't I go in tomorrow morning with Sonny?"

Hardcastle made a face. He had every intention of getting this over with today, come hell or high water, just in case.

"You oughta know by now—you aren't a morning person. Besides, Sonny's got a whole lot more to talk to them about than you do. He's known Sales and his men for years_._ You only had the one-night stand."

Mark frowned as he threw the covers back and sat up. "He's not gonna be in any trouble, is he? I mean, the break-in, that won't be hearsay for him." His brow furrowed. "You neither." He looked up, his worried expression back in full. "But you're an ex-judge. He'll—"

"Be okay," the ex-judge finished calmly. "That isn't what Delario is interested in."

Mark looked increasingly puzzled, but a four-hour nap hadn't made up for the deficits of the nights that had preceded it. Still, he was just enough with-it to be stubborn.

"Okay, I'll go with you now, but I want to be there tomorrow anyway." He put one hand on the mattress to boost himself to his feet and then hobbled the first couple of steps toward the closet.

Hardcastle's sigh was mostly surreptitious and completely subject to interpretation. "All right. If you still want to go again tomorrow, I won't object. Just put a move on it now."

00000

It went relatively smoothly. Delario himself had hung around for the proceedings, being deeply interested in the outcome of Sales' prosecution. The judge had to admire the man's stamina. But the long hours they'd all already put in meant for very few requests for clarification, and McCormick was an experienced-enough witness to need no prompting.

They were back at the room by a quarter after five, with Mark already getting antsy. A visit to the Apollo apparently demanded a second shower and a shave. That done, he emerged—smiling and looking relatively more himself—wearing a dress shirt and dark slacks. He was knotting a powder-blue tie.

The judge, a little less upscale in his approach, at least put a jacket on over his cleanish tee, with his Stetson as a final touch—as befitted a high-roller. He was almost as distracted as McCormick, having caught a look at that tie, full on. It was narrow, though wide enough to shout out: "Welcome to Atlantic City"—with a dice motif, to boot. A quick glance into the bathroom revealed the wrapping paper deposited in the waste basket.

_Something to remember him by_. Hardcastle suppressed the twinge of foreknowledge—it was possible that Sonny was a changed man.

00000

They'd returned the battered sedan during their visit to the cops that afternoon. Hardcastle let the doorman summon a cab while Mark bounced gently on his heels, smiling with anticipation. The judge took the brevity of the ride with mixed emotions. He didn't think he could stand much more of the younger man's unbridled enthusiasm, but he wasn't eager to see if his own suspicions were right.

The marquee was still lit up: Sonny's name in lights—that might be quite literally a good sign. McCormick stopped to admire it. From there it was a short step—now that the worries of the afternoon were behind him—for Mark to launch himself into an full-blown paean to Sonny's actions of the night before.

The judge tried just nodding; he couldn't quite work up a smile. He said something banally semi-approving—Sonny was the kid's family, after all. This did nothing to curb the gush and Mark finally got around to the details—

"Hey, you never did tell me—how long did it take him to convince you to go into that safe?" And then, despite Hardcastle's silence—"I mean, do you realize how incredible a guy would have to be to get _you_ to break the law? He'd have to be a genius, right?"

The judge cocked his head, just slightly. There wasn't any answer to this, none that wouldn't be the equivalent of picking up a rock and heaving through that flashy marquee.

So he said it, once and without rancor, almost a drawl and with no further elaboration:

"I didn't break the law."

As clues went, it was too subtle by then for the younger man.

Eventually they went in. There were no jostling crowds, just the doorman and a couple of faux Greek statues. Of course it was only a weeknight, and this _was _'The Sonny Daye Show'.

But it wasn't. Hardcastle knew that the moment they walked into the room, with the full lights up and the hostesses—the only other people in the place—sitting in a cluster at one of the tables. One of them got up and approached. Mark, still baffled, made inquiries.

The truth—that Sonny, ever true to form, had cut his losses and left town—was delivered with scorn by the disgruntled woman, along with an envelope addressed to Mark, once she knew he was the intended recipient. Hardcastle wasn't sure why the kid opened it right then and there, even less sure why he read it out loud. But it was being read, so the least he could do was listen.

He supposed it could have been worse—though he was damned if could imagine how.


End file.
